Why Do I Even Bother?
by unknown ghost author
Summary: Why should I fight this? Why should I fight this feeling of perfection? I shouldn't, and I don't. I have this, I have Jazz, and all is right with the world.


**Why Do I Even Bother?**

**P/J**

**T  
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><p><em>Thanks to AkimaM, I found this Oldie in my harddrive as well! This is VERY different from anything else I've written. I don't often do 1st person, and I was playing with the style. I can't remember what I wrote this for. I think it was a Halloween challenge a few years ago. Hope you enjoy!<em>

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><p>I stand outside the <em>Ark<em> and stare out over the shimmering desert, watching the play of the sun's rays and the charged red clay earth play together amidst the heat waves rising through the distance. Small clouds of spraying sand twist upwards, arching around themselves in whirlwinds of twirling tornadoes. A smile tickles my lips upwards; Jazz is having fun out there.

I am, without a doubt, utterly, deliriously happy. I am fully charged, fully engaged fully revved, fully prepared for everything within this life. I am smiling now, and I know it's not merely because I am watching Jazz play amongst the sand dunes in the far off distance. I am smiling because I am happy. I am fundamentally content with the universe, with the world, and with everything in it. Most of all, and my doorwings flick upwards briefly as I think the thought, I am happy now with _me_.

The crew is still flummoxed, still bemused, and they don't know what to make of it. I don't care. Why should I bother with their bother? Why should I care about their shock and surprise? I know who I am and I know what happened. Why should I bother fighting these feelings? I fought them long enough, buried so deeply within me that even I didn't know they existed. No more. I refuse to fight this any longer, and I have chosen to _live._

Something happened about six months ago, and honestly? I've forgotten the details. It was one of those days where everything was irritatingly normal, frustratingly predictable, and the banality of the routine had begun to wear ever-thin. It was that which had driven me to quietly admire Jazz in the stillness and privacy of my thoughts alone. That ability of his, that damnable, needful ability of his to turn even the most dreary and dull of a day into the most smile-worthy occasion. His liquid lips and silver-slithering glossa, always quick and eager to delight, ripped over an endless stream of ribald stories and quixotic jokes. How could he always manage to tell a joke that caught on the humor of the twins, and yet in the end, the punch line was private and held just for him… or for us? Sitting apart and separated from the laughing group, I would often see Jazz turn his flashing optics, obscured through the frosty cover of his visor, toward my solitary table, and as the punch line flowed and the chuckles followed, the deeper joke would fly between us, poking fun at the twins themselves, or hitting a higher point of humor on the intellectual scale and twisting the irony or mocking back around in subtleties of rich, unimagined depth. I loved him for that, in retrospect. The way he reached out to everyone, included everyone, even myself, in the most easy-going ritual of all. He could always see the best parts of you, even when you didn't know that part of yourself! He saw it in me much before I knew it even existed.

I hate to admit it, but I didn't like him much back then. I think, though, that I was always lying to myself. A part of me hated when he would try to slide those jokes across the Rec room to me – I was sitting alone for a reason, thank you very much, and it was to be unbothered and to work in peace. And yet, I couldn't ignore the fact that I was indeed in the Rec room and not in my office, where I was guaranteed to be unbothered. I would get irritated, flashing hotness with a warmth emanating from between my doorwing hinges centered on my back, all tenseness and angles… but I always came back for more. It took a while for me to admit that I enjoyed those tiny glances, those tiny, shared laughs, those briefest flickers of invitation. Even then, I only admitted it to the silence of my processor, and only in the darkest of the night. It was entirely incomprehensible to even fathom admitting it to his faceplates, and I never, ever tried.

He was too _much_, simply much too much, of damned near everything. Too much life, too much energy, too much movement and laughing and talking and presence. He was electrified, and the charged air of the Command Deck belied his every move, his every entrance and exit. Who could blame me for stiffening up, for trying to shield myself from the force and flow of life that radiated from the mech in ceaseless, terrible waves? I, who was caught in the stiffness of the darkness, the silence of my processor, and stuck in the wilderness of my own denial, could never, ever attempt to know or understand such forces of life. I was having a hard enough time collating duty schedules and energon efficiency reports to engage in anything as exciting as _life_. He was magic, forbidden, electrical, terrifying magic, and it burned off of his very being, scaring me with his intensity and purpose. As I said, who could blame me for running in terror?

But, I am getting away from myself. The wind is stirring up the evening air and Ratchet shifts uncomfortably next to me. A storm is coming, and he hates when the mechs insist on subjecting themselves to the electrical storms and barrages of lightning that cascade through the far desert. Dust and sand sweep over our shins, scratching over my armor plating, and I tilt my helm back slightly while my optics dim. I am so unbelievably _alive_ now, and everything is simply intoxicating. Life is deliriously delicious, and I want to _feel_ every single bit of it. I can feel the magic, that magic that Jazz always touches, flowing through my being. He's given it to me, and I can never thank him enough.

It happened that day, when everything was disgustingly normal and I was still stuck in my banal, dreary routine, the monotony of my very own life. Suddenly there were alarms, and an attack, and the racing of tires and screaming of engines as we all raced out to defend ourselves from the Decepticons. I don't remember details, as I said. Jazz and I were taking cover and preparing to fire back on the Seekers – and don't think it was an accident I was with him. I may not have admitted it, but I couldn't tear myself away – when we were hit. The rock exploded before us, and I remember flying backward, white plating and one blue racing stripe flashing before my optics before everything went black.

When I onlined, everything was different. _I_ was different. Perhaps something was jolted loose, perhaps something cascaded within my emotional processing, perhaps some wire soldered down onto my mainframe, completing a circuit I'd long thought abandoned and devoid of any input. Whatever it was, I onlined with the shocking clarity of mind that comes only once in any mech's life. I was utterly, unequivocally in _love_ with Jazz. I was helm over heels, doorwings a'twitter, spark a'flutter, in love with Jazz. I needed those jokes, those secretive glances, that friendly pat on my shoulder when he passed me by, the simple ways he said nothing – and yet everything – when he'd compliment my paint or my plan for battle.

I said so to Ratchet, the moment I onlined. Told him in a rush that I was in love in with Jazz, the words spilling from my vocalizer as sounds that my lips couldn't form until the third try, modulating and perfecting the easiest admission I had ever labored against in my entire life. I told him over and over as he leaned over me, staring down into my wild gaze with wide, brightening optics as he scanned my cortical processor. Clearly, he thought I was mentally deranged. The summation of my entire public opinion of Jazz could be summed up in a set of high-held doorwings and a perturbed, "Hmmm."

Ratchet listened to the recitation of my love silently, never ridiculing me at all. I expected the worst, honestly. I expected him to scoff, to disbelieve, to glower and bitterly growl at me to shut my mouth in the next instant. When I was through, tapering off from all the various ways my processor had imagined in which to love Jazz, Ratchet told me gruffly that I had "missed a lot," and that I had been offline for a while as he had worked to repair my damage. I had been hit hard, he said, taking a larger portion of the blast. I didn't care at all. Let me lie on the berth and think of Jazz then, fantasizing how I would tell him of my feelings. Ratchet wandered away after a while, and I slipped back into the haze of recharge brought on by the honeyed slowness of sedatives.

When I woke again, Jazz was at my side. His hand was tangled in one of my own, his perfect, beautiful lips curved up in the softest smile I had ever seen, and the fingers of his other hand were grazing down my cheek, feather light. No words were needed, but I still tried to choke them out, suddenly shy again in front of the one mech who could make my entire world suddenly meaningful. My vocalizer, so full and flowing before, was turbid with static and hesitancy.

I should have known he wouldn't need any words though. His touches were perfect, and I couldn't stop the gasp that fell from my mouth, so needy and wanting all at once. He smiled again, tilting his helm just so, and the moment seared itself into my mind. "I'm so glad you figured it out," Jazz whispered to me, the faintest hints of his baritone flowing through his breathy tones.

"I'm so sorry you had to wait," I whispered back, shaking.

"The waiting's over," he smiled. He was always smiling, always looking up. Primus, I loved him for that, loved him so slagging much.

We talked softly, sharing stories and jokes and laughing together for hours, totally uninterrupted. I got to know him as I never had before, saw the mech within, the one who threw me those glances across the Rec room or clapped me on the shoulder on the Command Deck. The others only saw the surface of Jazz, but he let me in deeper, let me see the fractal patterns of his spark, the echoes of his soul, reverberating to the sounds of the music he was so enamored with. We joked over that as well, and the laughter fell from me in trickles and chuckles, each more warm than the last.

Ratchet returned, still as cheerful as ever, and over the course of the next week, he and Jazz traded places at my berthside. They were a study in opposites; Jazz was loving, delightful, and all touches and caresses and care. Ratchet was glowers, grumbles and gruff tones. He was not overly optimistic about my healing – my doorwings were gone, in fact – and he cautioned slow steadiness, a commitment to rehabilitative therapy as I relearned some of the basics he thought I might struggle with. Finally, after much convincing, he let me journey to the Rec room at midday, though he insisted on escorting me personally. Still, I surprised him with the strength of my legs and joints, and I was able to walk mostly unaided the majority of the way there. It was a great victory, and for the first time, he was pleased. I insisted I was fine as I settled into the chair at my solitary table and waved him away. I had plenty of pads to read, and besides, Jazz was going to be off duty at the end of the shift. We could finally sit together and relax over energon, almost like a true date. Ratchet hemmed and hawed but finally left. He truly does care for us, though he fights off showing it most times. I understand. I was the exact same.

I alternated between reading and fantasizing, thinking of all the perfect and wonderful qualities and attributes of Jazz once again. Slowly, mechs began to trickle in, and each of them was surprised and shockingly delighted to see me up and about. They came over and shook my hand, smiling widely, congratulating me on getting back on my feet and recovering. It was almost overwhelming. I hadn't thought I was liked that much, and certainly not enough to warrant such an outpouring of emotion. Certainly I expected the mechs to acknowledge my return, but the sheer volume of happiness and relief directed my way was nearly stunning.

It was Sideswipe who ended up staying with me though, sitting at my table and straddling the chair in reverse with his chin propped up on the headrest. He poked fun at my reading – Shakespeare, the human romantic, who I had previously no interest in reading – and then at my missing doorwings, though it was all in happy jest. I played along, though my optics darted to the doorway every so often. I was waiting for Jazz, though chatting with Sideswipe was surprisingly pleasant.

Sideswipe caught me. "Whatcha doing, Prowl? Waiting for someone?" He was grinning, and I thought he might have already heard.

"Jazz," I said back smoothly, smiling awkwardly. It was strange for me to admit it aloud. "I finally figured out I'm in love with him." I felt a thrill as I said the words.

Sideswipe's astounded and completely, utterly shocked expression was too priceless for words to convey. He was caught in-between shock and astounding surprise, confusion and abject befuddlement. His mouth dropped open, lips slack, and his face worked around itself as his expression flipped and flopped through a series of wild emotions. I am certain he thought me sparkless and unable to feel such an emotion as love. But that was no matter and no bother to me, not anymore. Love brings a peaceful lassitude and a quietness of mind. There is nothing that can bother me any longer, not Sideswipe, not his pranks, not his brother, not his insistence on corrupting Bluestreak. Not his disbelieving of my love. Nothing. Loving Jazz cures me of all that tightened pressure and coiled stress.

Sideswipe continued to look flummoxed, bewildered and shocked as he sat straddling the chair, but I paid him no more mind as I continued to wait for Jazz. The Rec room was filling up with mechs from after shift, and any minute he'd be sauntering in. My engines were ticking and fluttering as I imagined the power of his smile. I could not contain my own at the thought.

Instead, Ratchet returned. Sideswipe had slinked off, and I guess the rumor of his abilities in the rumor department were true. Wide, disbelieving optics and turned helms fixed onto me from every which way. Of course, I knew my admission would shock the mechs. I had never shown any sort of feeling one way or the other, aside from irritation or professionalism, and I certainly had never shown any interest in Jazz before any of this. I lived locked in the confines of my armor, all my innards and emotions sheltered and contained away behind a cool, logical veneer. But, why should I care what they think? Why should I bother with caring about their disbelief, their shock? Why should I bother with the crew's shock? It matters not to me, not when everything is finally falling into place within the universe. I love Jazz, and unbelievably, Jazz loves me in return.

Ratchet steered me away, saying I needed rest and more medications, and that too much stimulus was going to tax me in my slow healing. Just to irritate him, and as petty revenge for taking me away from my wait for Jazz, I stood up all on my own and walked proud and strong out of the Rec room, again, all on my own. Ratchet sheltered my every step with a frown, but I was determined to prove a point. I made it to the turbolift before I needed to steady myself against the wall. And, unfortunately, I did fall back into recharge when I got back to the medbay nearly as soon as I laid back down on the berth.

When I awoke, Jazz was at my side again, joking with me over the looks on the crew's faces and their shocked reactions to my revelations. We chuckled together for hours, talking softly in the darkness of the medbay as his hands stroked over my own, and our fingers played over each other's tenderly. I was drifting away, pulled down into recharge once more as he stood to leave, and something in my optics must have given away my desires. Another impossibly soft smile spread over his face, and then he was leaning down, the perfect warmth and softness of his lips gently meeting my own. I swear, as deeply as I can, that my spark stopped at the first feel of his lips against my own. I was jolted, shocked with the power of his very being, the sparkle and raw electricity of everything that was _him_ concentrated at the juncture of our joined lips. I moaned, shamelessly, and my hand reached up to graze over his helm, drifting down his warm plating and over his audial horn. Our lips lazily meshed together, stroking against each other softly, and when he pulled back, the last image I had before drifting off to recharge was his perfect smile gazing down at me.

I felt much better, but still, Ratchet insisted my healing was going slowly. I made a point of showing him how strong I was and how I was able to move and stay online for longer and longer periods of time without needing extra energon or rest. Jazz came to visit me every single day, sometimes multiple times a day, and his presence helped me to push toward healing even more. I wanted to be out of the medbay. I wanted to be with him. Ratchet was surprisingly persistent though. That was alright in the end since Jazz was there with me.

Even now, even today, Ratchet still insists I need time to heal. He looks at me with guarded optics now, holding my gaze before he says anything at all. I don't know what he's looking for when he does that, but I just wait patiently before he tells me the next round of tests he's got planned for the day, or the next sequence of physical therapies we're going to work through. He allows me these brief trips out of and away from the medbay now, and I like to head outside and watch Jazz as he drives and races through the dusky setting sun. It's an Indian summer, and the heat waves are scorching through the crisp autumn air. I can nearly smell the heated oils and burning rubber of his frame, superheated and charged up from the drive. My hands twitch, the palms scratching as I think of running them over his perfect body. I love how he wriggles when I touch him, arching his back as my hands stroke down his curves. Again, a smile stretches across my face and I sigh, contented.

"Let's head back inside, Prowl," Ratchet says, his gruff voice seemingly choked off. "You need more energon."

He's right, my reserves are low. He's letting me stay out here longer and longer these days. He knows I like it, watching Jazz like this, and he knows I want to be out there chasing him. Ratchet would never admit it, but he truly does care for us spark-deep. I appreciate that, more than I can say. Instead, I try to respect his wishes and follow his treatment as best I can. I turn to him and smile, nodding as we both begin to shuffle inside. The wind is picking up, and the sand flicks across both our backplates, a small wind vortex swirling between my repaired doorwings sending me into a hot shiver. For a moment, it feels like Jazz. I smile.

"Is Jazz coming in soon?" Ratchet asks after a long pause. The air seems thick and heavy, charged all of a sudden. I wish Ratchet, of all mechs, could accept my feelings for Jazz and our new relationship. He spends the most time with me, after all, and he knows Jazz visits me nearly every free moment.

I look over my shoulder at the sand dunes and the spraying grit kicked up by the storm. Maybe Ratchet is just concerned about Jazz getting struck by lightning. The storm is rolling in, another fixture of these Indian summers. I smile, watching the sprayed up sand swirl into a vortex and rise high into the golden amber sky. "Soon," I say back to him. "He's having a great time out there. But he promises to not get struck by any stray bolts of lightning." I turn back to Ratchet and smile at him teasingly.

Ratchet smiles back, but it's twisted and contorted, as if eminently painful. I wonder why he's so scared of the lightning.

We're finally back on good footing now, but there was a time, about two months ago, when I refused to speak to Ratchet any longer. He tried to say something to me, something awful, and I screamed at him, hollering painfully and tearfully back at him to stop lying and to stop with the bitterness. I didn't know what he was doing, but my best guess was that he was trying to test my processor and mental circuits for any residual damages from the attack. I didn't much like how he went about it though. Later that night, Jazz came by to help me calm down, and I broke into pieces, sobbing into his arms. I don't think I could go on in a world where Jazz was gone, and where I never got a chance to tell him I loved him. I don't know why Ratchet was being so cruel, so hurtful, in trying to convince me that that was the case, that Jazz had died protecting me from the Seekers' incoming attack after that blast that knocked me offline, but Jazz's arms chased away the pain, and his soothing touches and whispered words of love relaxed me enough to fall into recharge. I cupped his face, stroking my thumbs over his cheeks as I told him how much I loved him. "You have to know," I whispered shakily. "You have to know how much I love you."

"I do," Jazz whispered back, kissing my palm. "I do, Prowl. And I'm not going anywhere." And then he smiled again, and all was right in the world once more.

Ratchet never spoke that lie again, and I am unspeakably thankful for that.

I wave to passing members of the crew as we head back inside, and they all smile and nod at me, but the smile never reaches their optics anymore. Part of me is saddened by that. I knew I was never very much liked by the crew, but are they truly so bewildered by the thought of Jazz and I in love? Are they so shocked that they have pushed any possibility of acceptance away? Are they angry about it, for some reason? Perhaps none of them think I am good enough, mech enough, for Jazz? Some of them used to visit me in the medbay, but now, its just Ratchet and me throughout the day, until Jazz stops by, of course. He always comes for me.

Ratchet let me move back to my quarters a month ago, and I was very grateful for that. We head there now. I keep energon rations in my quarters, enough for Jazz and I, and I spend my evenings catching up on reading or playing any one of a variety of different games with Jazz. He taught me Go Fish last week, but changed the rules to include kissing. I admit I wasn't terribly interested in the game itself, and ended up manipulating my way into losing… just so I could go fishing for kisses. Jazz knew all along.

The night I moved back into my quarters, Jazz stopped by, and after much shyness and flustered fumbling on my part, we ended up finally making love in my berth. He was, of course, perfect and unflappable as ever, but I got him to gasp and moan my name aloud as we writhed together, hands and lips and legs all stroking over one another as we finally, perfectly, came together. I was exploding in overload, shrieking with rapture, and afterwards, I laid my helm on his chest and listened to the thrum of his spark while his hands played over my helm and neck softly. I told him I loved him, whispering it over and over.

Finally, we're back at my quarters, Ratchet and I. I stop and enter my door code, then turn to smile my good bye to Ratchet. "Leave the door unlocked for Jazz, Ratchet," I say. "He'll be coming by later."

Ratchet smiles thinly and nods. He's put a medical lock on my door. He says it's for if I have to leave my quarters at night, he can be alerted and track me if I need assistance. I am thankful for the consideration, but I do not want to lock Jazz out. Sometimes I am tired, and I do not hear the doorchime when I am offline. It hasn't stopped Jazz from getting in yet though. Still, I don't want Ratchet and Jazz to get into an argument over picked locks and circumnavigated systems.

"Good night, Prowl," Ratchet says, that odd, choked off sound back in his voice. "I'll see you in the morning."

I nod to him as I step inside, and the door closes behind me. Faintly, I hear a few key strokes, and I hope Ratchet hasn't engaged the lock. Still, Jazz will be able to get in, so I put it out of my helm. It's a night of reading for me, and I settle into my berth with my data pad of Sartre's _No Exit._ I am tired though, and the passages fall away from me as I drift off into recharge.

Some time later, I awake to the feel of arms sliding around me from behind, and then there is a warm body pressing against my backside and a face burrowing into my neck. I smile as I sit up, and my doorwings flutter as I turn and lay back down facing Jazz. The only light in the room is the soft glow of his visor, nearly translucent now with how low it is turned, and I can see his optics outlined below. The visor gives him an almost ethereal glow, an otherworldly, spiritual lighting, and the effect is stunningly beautiful. I reach for his face, cupping his cheek, and then we're kissing once more. Jazz mumbles into my lips that he loves me, and as my hands roam over his plating, I can feel the heat of the desert, the warmth of his engine, and my optics dim with delighted satisfaction.

I fall back to the berth, dragging Jazz down on top of me, and we're kissing as we're stroking, hands touching and fondling each other as we softly slide together. Why should I fight this? Why should I fight this feeling of perfection? I shouldn't, and I don't. Why should I care about the crew? Why do I even bother to care about their jeers, their laughter, and their scorn? Why should I bother to care about Ratchet's dim predictions of my recovery? Why do I even bother myself with puzzling over Ratchet's odd and horrible lie of several months ago?

I don't. I _don't_. I have this, I have Jazz, and all is right with the world. His lips graze down my neck as I arch up into his touch, moaning his name aloud, and I feel his hands dip into my armor seams at my hips. I shiver, the tingles unfolding within my systems, and I gasp his name as I whisper to him the words I can never, ever stop saying: "I love you, Jazz…"

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><p>Thanks for reading! :)<p> 


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